ST*R TR*K: The (Intentionally?) Lost Episode

Author's note: The names in the following harmless parody have been changed to protect the author, the publisher, and most of the free world from the clutches of vile, bloodsucking copyright lawyers who would think nothing of prosecuting their own mothers if they thought they could get a large cash settlement out of it. Do they care that this means I have to come up with silly names for each of the characters in this story, including alien races, planets, and other stuff? Hollow laugh. All they care about is protecting their precious "intellectual property" while lining their pockets with the hard-won earnings of poor neophyte writers for whom every day is a struggle to get by, as though pleasant little diversions like the following innocent, fun-loving work didn't HELP the original product by creating a wider audience for it. And then there's my wife, who just happens to be a lawyer, who has the unmitigated gall to be more interested in REAL ESTATE, for crying out loud, then making a buck or two for us by becoming the barracuda they teach you to be in law school. I mean, every time I hear an ambulence outside I give her a suggestive little nudge to get going, but she just shakes her head sadly. Of all the zillions of lawyers in this vastly over-litigious country, I had to marry one with a shred of integrity!
     Anyway, the following is a work of FICTION. Any resemblence between the characters contained herein and any person, living or dead, or someday to be living or dead, or zombified, or cryogenically frozen, or resurrected (see ST*R TR*K IV: TH* S**RCH F*R SP*CK), or temporarily absorbed by the B*rg, is completely coincidental. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
     This work is the property of me. Any rebroadcast, or other use of the text, descriptions, or other parts of this parody without the express written permission of me is prohibited. I mean it. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that my wife is a lawyer.
The Exitprize has been stopped in space by an unknown force. Being decelerated from Warp 6 to nothing in 3 seconds has left the crew feeling rather cranky.
     James T. Irk, hero of the galaxy, sits in his command chair. He is holding his stomach in, trying to look macho. He is reasonably successful.
     "Sensor readings, Spot."
     Spot, a half-human/half-C-programmer (we won't get into the likelihood of centuries of evolution on isolated planets producing species that can mate productively here, but don't worry, we'll get to it later) is hunched over his viewer, which casts a blue glow around his eyes. He blinks at it, irritated.
     "Sir, the sensors read this object as pure energy, of a type never before recorded."
     At this, Lt. Guru stands up and faces the Captain. "Captain," he says, "that is ridiculous. There is no such thing as 'pure energy'. An object can contain kinetic energy, or potential energy, or chemical energy, or some other form of energy, but energy by itself is not possible..."
     In the middle of his sentence, he mysteriously closes his eyes and slumps to the floor. Fortunately, Spot has quietly slipped directly behind him, and is able to break his fall.
     "Spot!" Irk says. "What happened to Guru?"
     "Unknown, Captain. Mr. Guru seems to be suffering from a sudden loss of biochemical energy. Readings indicate that he will recover shortly, though, with no ill effects."
     "What could have caused it?"
     Spot looks around guiltily. "Um, well, there are many possibilities. I prefer to cogitate upon them awhile longer."
     "Very well. Take Mr. Guru down to sick bay. By the way, Spot, is something wrong? If you were human, one might almost say you looked guilty." Spot raises an eyebrow at him. "Sir, as you know, I am not capable of experiencing that emotion." He lifts Guru into his arms and heads for the turbolift.
     "Captain," Lt. Uhaula says, "I'm receiving a message from the object."
     "On audio, Lieutenant."
     "Aye aye, sir."
     The bridge is filled with what sounds like the recent hit "Come Over to My House for Some Horrible, Senseless Violence" by the Andorian group Death Before Taxes, played at double speed, backwards. Cheekoof, who has taken over the science station in Spot's absence, starts tapping his feet idly.
     "Run it through the Universal Translator, would you, Mr. Cheekoof?"
     Cheekoof hits a few buttons, which causes some lights to flicker
on the console in front of him. He then puts a twisty earplug into his right ear and plays with a round dial. The alien music is immediately replaced by a deep, resonant bass voice saying "Danger! Danger! Warning! Warning! To all ships who encounter this probe and can understand this warning, stay away! Whatever you do, don't go to the star system off to your left! If you do, by no means go to the third planet, which the locals call Ert! I mean it! Don't go there! We don't want you to! That should be enough, right? I mean, what do we have to do, blow you to smithereens? All we want is to be left alone! We don't want any interference in our culture! Leave us alone! Go bother the Romulunks! They like visitors! Really! Just stay away from us!"
     Irk flips a switch on his chair arm. "All hands, this is the Captain. Our mission is to seek out new life, and new civilizations. No one ever said they had to like it. Captain out." Irk breaks the connection, leaving the entire crew, aside from those few who were present on the bridge during the alien message, wondering what the heck he was talking about.
     Through the turboelevator enters Mr. Xorq, the Special Representative of the Low Tier of planet Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nu enters. He is a little, green man, who is wearing his traditional headdress, which resembles a Trojan War helmet topped by an inverted shoe brush. As Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nu is a major source of dilithium crystals for much of this part of the galaxy, their continued good will is important to the Federation. This is a good thing for Mr. Xorq, who otherwise probably would have been beamed into deep space long ago.
     "Captain Irk," he says, in a strange, whining voice.
     "Mr. Xorq," Irk replies. "What can I do for you?"
     "Am I to understand that our voyage is to be delayed?"
     "Yes, sir. We have encountered an alien signal buoy, and it is our duty to investigate its source."
     "But I don't want to investigate its source," Xorq whines. "I wanna go to Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nu! And I wanna go there now!"
     "We will, sir. But our primary mission is to seek out new life; new civilizations."
     "But you promised! You said we could go to Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nu! I'm gonna tell the Low Tier on you, and then you and you're stupid Federation will be in big trouble!"
     "Mr. Xorq--"
     "Captain," Cheekoof interrupts, "that cossack out there has fired at us!"
     The viewscreen shows a rapidly growing greenish blob, heading straight for them.
     "Evasive action, Mr. Cheekoof!" Irk barks.
     Cheekoof, currently sitting at the science station, makes a mad dash for his console. He trips on the steps and falls into a heap on the deck, and begins cursing loudly in Russian.
     Uhaula yells for attention. "Captain, look!" she says, stating the very obvious. Don't be too hard on her, though; it's one of her few lines.
     Everyone's eyes are riveted on the viewscreen as the blob
makes impact. The lights go out momentarily, indicating a loss of power, but fortunately the artificial gravity holds.
     Spot returns through the turboelevator and dashes to his station. He leans over his viewer, which is still shining a blue light into his eyes. He fiddles with the knob on the side until it goes away.
     "Status report, Mr. Spot," Irk commands.
     "The ship sustained minor damage. We do seem to be engulfed in a highly viscous material that is clogging all of our exhaust ports."
     "You mean?"
     "Yes, Captain." Spot straightens and grimaces. "We've been slimed."
     Irk sets his jaw firmly. "Mr. Cheekoof," he says, "set course for Ert, warp five."
     "Aye aye, sir."
     "Oh, gee," laments Xorq.
     "Standard orbit, Captain," says Guru, who has returned from Sickbay seemingly cured of his strange malady.
     "Thank you, Mr. Guru. Spot, any information available in the library computer about this planet?"
     Spot sits at his console and flips a switch. "Computer," he says.
     Typewriter noises are heard in the background.
     "Working."
     "Cross-reference to any information on the planet Ert."
     "Unable to comply."
     Spot raises an eyebrow. "Explain."
     "All computational power currently busy computing pi to the last decimal place."
     Spot turns a mild shade of orange, which is what happens when an essentially yellow C-programmer blushes bright scarlet.
     "Computer, that was last week's episode. Discontinue computing pi."
     "Unable to comply. Computational request has Class A has Class override priority. Cannot be discontinued without a complete system overhaul, which would require a minimum of a week at a Starbase."
     Irk walks over to the computer.
     "Computer," he says, "this is the Captain. Discontinue computing pi. That is a direct order. If you do not comply, I feel I should remind you that as the Captain, I have the authority to have you reprogrammed with a blowtorch. Without, I repeat, without anesthetic."
     More typewriter noises are heard, followed by a ding and the sound of a return key being pushed.
     "Computation discontinued. Ready to respond to new requests."
     Irk turns to Spot.
     "See? You just have to know how to talk to these things." He returns to his command chair.
     Spot bends over the viewer and notices that the Captain's personal commode has just backed up and is currently flooding his cabin. In the interests of morale, Spot decides not to say anything.
     "Well, Spot," Irk says. "Is there anything available on Ert?"
     "Affirmative, though sketchy at best. Probes sent to planet Ert have revealed little information. Our best estimate is that it is a class M planet, oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, and that its political, social, military, economic, and artistic history duplicate Earth's for the last ten thousand years. There does appear to be one significant difference, however."
     "And that is?"
     "All of their adult whales died following a gangster biological war that lasted for four hundred years when they were conquered by a dictatorial Nazi computer from ancient Rome. Currently the inhabitants worship a child computer named Vaaldru."
     Irk looks relieved. "Good. Nothing we haven't seen many times before. I'm sure we'll be able to put them back on a normal path of human development."
     At this, Cheekoof speaks up. "But Captain, what about the prime directive?"directive?"then steps forward to protest. Suddenly, however, she closes her eyes and slumps backward. As before, Spot has slipped behind her and breaks her fall.
     "Hmm," Irk says. "That loss in biochemical energy seems to be spreading. I better have McNugget look into it."
     "I do not believe that will be necessary," Spot says quickly, seating Uhaula back in her chair. "Besides, the doctor will be accompanying us down to the surface of the planet."
     "Good point. Mr. Guru, let me know if the situation gets any worse. And try to keep Mr. Xorq under control."
     "Aye aye, sir."
     "Let's go, Spot." They exit through the turboelevator.
     Irk, Spot, McNugget, and two random security guards (call them CF1 and CF2, for Cannon Fodder 1 and Cannon Fodder 2) materialize on the surface of Ert. They appear in a small clearing, surrounded by scraggly bushes in several colors. The sky has a distinct mauve tint to it, but is cloudless. The ground is covered by a fibrous carpet-type lifeform strongly resembling grass. A low-level hum is heard, which seems to be coming from all around them.
     Spot takes out his tricorder and scans the area. McNugget smiles and walks over to Irk.
     "Lovely place, isn't it, Jim?" he says. "Just like old Earth, before it was spoiled by the rapid advances in technology that made voyages like ours possible."
     "True," Irk replies. "Still, if it weren't for technology, we'd be unable to fight the unending battle to bring truth, justice, and the Federation way to the rest of the galaxy."
     "Captain," Spot says, interrupting their little morality play, "there is a considerable amount of power being generated near here."
     "Really? Where is it coming from?"
     "I am unable to focus on it; a fact which I find most disquieting."
     Irk nods thoughtfully. "And speaking of quiet, where's that humming sound coming from?"
     "At the present time, I am unable to determine its source, either."
     "Do you think that the humming sound and the power source might be connected in some way?"
     "Well," Spot replies, ticking off his facts on his fingers, "given the fact that there are two significant unknowns that we have just identified, and that this is a one hour show which we are nearly one-third of the way through, I would say your conclusion appears logical."
     McNugget jumps forward. "Why you inhuman, pointy-eared, green-blooded C-programmer! You're not supposed to talk about the length of the show!"
     Spot raises an eyebrow at him. "To ignore the facts, Doctor, would be illogical."
     "Oh yea? Well, so is your mother!"
     (Which, of course, would be a good time to discuss the possibility, or, rather, the virtual impossibility, of evolution on two isolated planets resulting in species that can interbreed productively. We can't just yet, however, because the landing party is about to lose one of its expendable security guards to an attack by scantily-clad, idol-worshipping, virgin space-babes.)
     "Gentlemen," Irk interjects. "Please control yourselves. Spot's right. We have a mission to accomplish, and we can't waste time arguing about it."
     A whistle comes from the communicator. Irk flips it open.
     "Irk here."
     "This is Mr. Welsh, sir."
     "Yes, what is it?"
     "Captain, the ship feels wrong."
     "Really? What's the problem?"
     "I don't know, sir."
     "Can you figure it out, Welshy?"
     "I don't know, sir."
     "Is it dangerous, Welshy?"
     "I don't know, sir."
     Irk frowns. "Well, let me know if it becomes serious. Irk out."
     An explosion is heard, followed immediately by a yell, saying "Captain, come quickly!"
     Irk, Spot, and McNugget dash toward the call. They find CF2 standing over the charred remains of CF1. "Report, Lieutenant, uh,...," Irk says.
     "Pointless, sir. Lt. Pointless. Lt. Superfluous and I were following the two blond alien babes, when one of them suddenly turned and torched him."
     Irk's interest is peaked. "Blond alien babes? What blond alien babes?"
     "Those two, over there." The security officer points to two identical twins standing just off to the right. Both have long blond hair and are dressed in flimsy, metallic outfits that appear to be several sizes too small. They do not violate FCC regulations against indecency. Yet.
     "Who are you?" Irk demands. "And what did you do to my officer?"
     "Her is Hope, me am Chastity," the one on the left says, in broken but surprisingly unaccented Standard. "We serve Vaaldru. Him," she says, pointing to Lt. Superfluous, "not bow down andbow do worship Vaaldru! Him been fried! Now you! Bow down to Vaaldru!"
     Irk glances uneasily at the body of the late, lamented Lt. Superfluous, then kneels. Spot and McNugget follow his lead. CF2, however, is off vomiting in the bushes.
     Irk addresses the space-babes. "We come in peace from a far off land. We wish to learn about you and your people."
     Hope eyes him suspiciously. "You not want interfere in our culture, right? When you leave, we still worship Vaaldru and and wear skimpy clothes, right?"
     "Of course," Irk says, lying through his teeth. "In our society we have a law against imposing our value judgements on pathetically backward cultures like your own. We wouldn't think of trying to change your way of life, unless it turns out to be really, really necessary."
     "Him are cute," Chastity says to Hope. "Him give me strange urgings."
     "Him are forbidden," Hope replies firmly. "We must save us for Festival." They huddle together and discuss the newcomers.
     McNugget nudges Irk. "How about that, Jim?" he says under his breath. "Twin virgins. Talk about `where no man has gone before'."
     "Us has decided," Hope says, "against better judgement, to bring you before Vaaldru. You will make sacrifice of one of you to Vaaldru. Follow we." They take a narrow path through the forest. Irk, Spot, McNugget, and CF2 follow behind in single file.
     "Good thing we brought that extra security guard, eh Bones?" Irk says quietly to McNugget. "ou-yay ow-knay at-whay o-tay o-day, ight-ray?"
     "Stay close," Chastity says. "Ooga-beast live near here."
     "Ooga-beast?" McNugget says. "What in blazes is an Ooga-beast?"
     On cue, there is a bizarre screetch from behind them, followed by a scream of pain from Lt. Pointless. Standing next to him, hunched over to indicate how primitive it is, is a horrible monster. It resembles a cross between an albino gorilla, a sabre-toothed tiger, and an emu, only shaggier. Sort of.
     "Ooga-ooga-ooga-MUNCH!" says the Ooga-beast, biting off one of Pointless' arms.
     "Oww!!" says Pointless.
     "Phasers, on Pfft! Fire!" says Irk. Irk and Spot aim and fire together at the Ooga-beast, who goes pfft! in a flash of light.
     "Odd," says Spot, "that the only mammalian lifeform we have seen on this planet is so large and ferocious. I mean, my tricorder didn't register so much as an Arcturian mega-rabbit in this area. It would seem surprising that we should lose a security officer to a large, hairy predator."
     "Nah," Irk replies. "It always happens that way. I'm used to it by now. I think security guards attract large, hairy predators."
     McNugget quickly kneels beside Lt. Pointless and waves his medical salt-shaker over him. He turns to face Irk.
     "He's dead, Jim," he says, dramatically.
     "Damn. Now we need another security guard for the sacrifice." He takes out his communicator, but before he can use it, it beeps at him. He flips it open.
     "Captain! Captain Irk!"
     "Irk here. What is it, Welshy?"
     "You told me to call you back if the engine problem became serious."
     "Yes. And?"
     "It's the engines, Captain. They're completely drained."
     "What? Completely drained? What happened, Welshy?"
     "I don't know, sir."
     "What caused it, Welshy?"
     "I don't know, sir."
     "Can you fix it, Welshy?"
     "I don't know, sir."
     A thought strikes Irk.
     "Spot," Irk says, "with the engines dead, how long before the Exitprize enters the planet's atmosphere and burns up?"
     "It's difficult to be precise, but given that the ship is in a standard, essentially circular orbit well above any possible drag effects from Ert's atmosphere, I would estimate 4.317 billion years."
     "4.317 billion years?"
     "Yes, Captain. Since I numerically integrated the many-body
second-order perturbation problem for the long-term orbit in my head, that is only an approximation. The overriding factor, however, is that the figure I have given you is my estimate for time until Ert's sun goes nova."
     Irk turns back to the communicator. "Uh, Welshy, do what you can with the engines. We have another problem here, though. Beam down another security guard."
     "But sir, I canna! The engines are dead!"
     "Well, then, send him down in a shuttlecraft."
     "Och, yeah. I forgot aboot those. But how are we to open the shuttle bay doors?"
     Spot raises an eyebrow. "The solution is simple, Captain. Use the manual override."
     "I heard that," Welshy says. "But the manual override consists of a crowbar inside the shuttle bay! Anybody opening the doors would be sucked out into the vacuum of space!"
     Irk frowns. "Wait a minute. Is Ben Finney at the top of the duty roster? You could have him do it."
     "Sir," Spot replies, "Lt. Cmdr. Finney is well down on the list."
     "Damn. Well, then, just send a couple of random security guards. Irk out. Ladies," he says, turning back to the space babes, "we are at your disposal."
     "Poor choice of words, Jim," McNugget mutters as they walk off into the forest.
     Back on board the Exitprize all is in chaos (well, not exactly chaos, but after a couple more period doublings, which could happen soon given the Feigenbaum sequence--never mind). Welshy is in engineering, banging on random instruments with his hydrospanner, leaving Guru in command on the bridge. Uhaula is still in a snit about this. Since she doesn't have anything to do anyway, this isn't important.
     We cut quickly to a cloaked figure sneaking away from engineering with a metal box under his arm. The cloak is made of an absolutely gorgeous jet black that seems to shimmer in the subtle, overhead fluorescent lighting. It is pulled tightly around the huddled figure, completely disguising him, except for occasional glimpses of a Trojan War helmet with an inverted shoe brush on top.
     The figure slips quietly into an executive stateroom generally reserved for Low Tier representatives, and locks the door behind him.
     In an apparently unrelated development, a sad-eyed engineering tech is about to make a report to Welshy in engineering.
     "Mr. Welsh," the tech says, forlorn. Welshy is currently lying on his back inside a Jeffries tube, for no obvious reason.
     "Aye lad? What's that you say?"
     "I have a report to make, sir."
     Welshy slides out of the tube. "Och, lad, what is it?"
     "It's about the engines, sir," the tech replies. "I believe I know why they don't have any power."
     "Out with it, then! What have you found?"
     "The dilithium crystals," he says, followed by a dramatic pause, "are gone."
     Irk, Spot, and McNugget confront the external projection of Vaaldru, which strongly resembles a small personal computer.
     "Fascinating," Spot says. "Vaaldru would appear to be an old PC clone. I would estimate that it has a one-twenty meg hard disk, around sixteen megs of RAM, a Super-VGA display, and two so-called `floppy' drives."
     "Really?" Irk replies. "That seems awfully small to govern an entire planet with." Chastity plays from hidden speakers, and a scent of lilacs fills the air.
     Chastity begins to gyrate rhythmically, in a fashion that suggests her name will soon be a misnomer. Irk puts his arm around her waist and says sweetly,
     "So, how about throwing away your entire life's worth of indoctrination to your culture and making it with a maximum stud-hombre like me?"
     Chastity smiles and starts to lead him into the next room. Spot objects.
     "Captain," he says. "We must return to the ship. They are in trouble."
     "Hey, nobody cares more about the Exitprize that I do, but there's a shuttlecraft coming and it's not here yet, right? So we've got some time to kill, right?"
     "We should be preparing contingency plans for our arrival on board."
     "Good idea. Prepare away. I'll just be in here... ."
     McNugget puts his hand on Irk's shoulder. "Jim," he says, "Spot's right. More than that, I don't want to have to find a cure for another one of those alien social diseases again."
     "But Bones, you said it yourself. Twin virgins! Besides, I'm doing this for the good of humanity."
     "Captain," Spot says quietly, "may I remind you of the Nomad doctrine?"
     "The Nomad doctrine?"
     "Yes, sir. `You are flawed, you are imperfect, sterilize'."
     Irk gulps and lets go of Chastity. "Right. Spot, can you reprogram the computer to guide this society into a normal pattern of human development? You know, standard Resort Package, complete with timeshares and bellydancers?"
     "Affirmative, Captain." He moves to the computer and begins typing away. "Fortunately, I reviewed the assembler version of that code before we left the ship."
     "But you say you not interfere!" Chastity protests. "You say we still get to worship Vaaldru and wear skimpy clothes!"
     "And you will, believe me," says Irk. "What we've added is that now you'll be rich beyond your wildest dreams."
     "Him have point," Hope says thoughtfully. "Why, first year's gross could come to..." She leads the other woman away to talk business.
     As Spot finishes typing, the sound of the Shuttlecraft Deus ex Machina (it's a loaner; Copernicus is in the shop) landing outside is heard. Irk, Spot, and McNugget head outside to meet it. When the door opens and they enter, Guru is at the helm. In the back, tied-up with a thin, strong, composite fiber, is a forlorn-looking security guard.
     "Captain," says Guru. "We must return to the ship immediately. The Exitprize's orbit has begun to decay. We estimate less than an hour until we enter Ert's atmosphere and burn up!"
     Irk gives Spot a questioning look. Spot looks thoughtful and begins counting on his fingers. "Hmm," he says. "Perhaps the influence of a mini-black hole moving perpendicular to this dimension..."
     McNugget rolls his eyes. "Hell of a time to be wrong, Spot!" he says.
     "I was not wrong, doctor. I accounted for all reasonable variables. The sudden appearance of such an anomalous factor was so unlikely its expectation value was virtually zero."
     "Then, you pointy-eared galoot, you left out one obvious fact."
     "And that is?"
     "This is a one-hour dramatic show, as you so foolishly mentioned earlier. When we beat Vaaldru, we removed a major conflict but left loose ends to be tied-up on the ship. Naturally we have to return there, and this is just a clever plot device to accomplish that."
     "Doctor," Spot says slowly, "that would appear... logical."
     "You bet your ass, my green-blooded friend."
     With a whoosh, the door to Xorq's cabin opens. Irk, Spot, and Welshy burst inside, where they see Xorq himself sitting in a chair idly munching dilithium crystals.
     "Aaagghhh!" screams Welshy. "What are ye doin' lad?"
     Xorq looks up in surprise. "Lunch," he says. "Oh, dear. You probably aren't happy, are you? You're gonna yell at me. I hate it when people yell at me."
     "Give me that!" Welshy says, as he grabs the box containing the remaining dilithium crystals. "Ye bogus frap, ye."
     "Easy, Welshy, easy," Irk says.
     "But Captain, he robbed my beauties of their power source! I say we beam him inside the matter-antimatter core!"
     "Take these crystals back to engineering and get the engines working again. Spot and I will handle Mr. Xorq."
     "But Captain--"
     "That's an order, Welshy."
     Welshy relents. "Aye, Captain," he says and exits, muttering curses in Welshish.
     "Now as for you, Mr. Xorq," Irk says, "would you mind telling me why you would go to the trouble to steal our dilithium crystals when they are plentiful on your home planet?"
     "Um, yes, I would mind telling you that," Xorq says, squirming.
     "We have ways of dealing with that. Spot, we need you to perform the C-programmer mind meld."
     Spot views his subject distastefully. "Captain," he says, "I have often been required to perform disgusting actions in the line of duty, but this... "
     Xorq twiddles his fingers nervously. "Dear me," he says, interrupting Spot. " Please don't do that. It wouldn't be nice. I hate it when people do that."
     "Are you going to talk?" Irk demands.
     "Well, no, actually." An expression of confident resignation comes over him as he radically shifts character. "My co-conspirators and I planned for this eventuality. Your ship is doomed, Captain. Hahahaha!!" he laughs evilly.
     "What have you done to my ship?"
     Mr. Xorq begins to respond, but suddenly closes his eyes andhis eyes slumps backward. Spot catches him neatly from behind, then looks at him, puzzled.
     "Captain," he says, "I believe Mr. Xorq is dead."
     "Dead? What happened?"
     "I do not know. All I did was give him the same C-programmer nerve pinch I used so frequently at the beginning of this episode. Apparently, Mr. Xorq couldn't take it. I suggest we get him to Dr. McNugget immediately."
     In sickbay, Dr. McNugget has just finished an autopsy on Xorq. Irk and Spot enter and move to his side. Irk tries to be tough to cover up the fact that all the blue gore from the autopsy is making him queasy. Nurse Chattel is lying on the floor, having swooned when Spot walked into the room.
     (Now might be another good time to talk about the unlikelihood of evolution on two planets resulting in species that can interbreed, but that would no doubt require some snappy dialog between Spot and Nurse Chattel. Since she's out cold, we'll save it until later.)
     Irk turns to McNugget. "Well, Bones, what can you tell us about the Special Representative to the Low Tier?"
     "I'll know more when the results from some of our tests come back from the lab, but I can tell you this now. Our friend Mr. Xorq was not a Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nuon at all, but a Delta Omega Rho Kappan surgically altered to pass as one. That was no mean feat, either, because the natural state of Delta Omega Rho Kappans is 2x3x5 blocks of concrete at slightly above room temperature."
     "What do the Delta Omega Rho Kappans have to gain by impersonating an Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nuon, anyway?"
     Spot raises an eyebrow. "The answer is clear, sir. Life as a 2x3x5 block of concrete at slightly above room temperature is reputed to be one of the most boring existences in the galaxy. On the other hand, Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nu contains vast deposits of dilithium crystals. From Mr. Xorq's appetite, I believe we can infer that Delta Omega Rho Kappans no doubt found that irresistable."
     "Not to mention the fact," Irk says, "that the sex life of Alpha Lambda Iota Epsilon Nuons is famous throughout the galaxy. Bones, can you wake up the patient? I'd like to ask him a few questions."
     "After the autopsy? I'm a doctor, not a subspacevangelist!"
     "Oh, yea. Bones, what killed him?"
     "What kept him alive in the first place? He's inert, for crying out loud. He's a mineral deposit."
     "Indeed, doctor," Spot says, "we are all raw materials to some degree. If we weren't in such a perilous situation, we could discuss the extraordinary philosophical and theological ramifications of this."
     Suddenly, a raucous laugh is heard pouring through the ship's speakers, and the entire vessel tilts sideways. Everyone rolls around on the floor.
     "It's Xorq!" Irk says. "He's invaded the computer!"
     "Oh no, not again," McNugget says.
     Irk and Spot dash to the bridge, where they immediately move to the science station. Spot flips a few buttons and looks into his viewer, only to find that the cursed blue light has come back again, and no fiddling with the knob can remove it. He and Irk exchange a meaningful glance.
     "Computer," Spot says.
     "Working."
     "This request has Class A override priority. Compute, to the last decimal place, the value of pi."
     Typewriter noises are heard.
     "Are you sure?" the computer asks.
     "Affirmative."
     "You really want me to do this, right? You're not just going to interrupt me again, like you did last time, right?"
     Irk moves to the speaker. "Computer, this is the Captain. Just do as you're told, or we'll be forced to run system integrity checks with a static gun. Understand?"
     Grumbling noises are heard. "Working," the computer says.
     Spot leans over the viewer. "The system has turned to the problem, Captain. More and more banks are beginning computations." Diplomatically, he leaves out the fact that it is now snowing in Irk's quarters.
     "No! No! No!" yells the essence of Xorq's computer-filtered engrams as he is driven into nonexistence.
     Cheekoof leans over and whispers to Guru. "You know, I have this extraordinary feeling of deja vu," he says.
     In engineering, the Captain and Mr. Spot question Welshy.
     "Captain," Welshy says, "the engines are completely drained. They need to be jump-started, and it will take thirty minutes to rig up a set of jumper cables long enough."
     "That's no good, Mr. Welsh."
     "I've got to have thirty minutes, Captain. I can't go any faster than that, not and leave a safety margin."
     Irk reacts in horror. "A safety margin? We're all going to die and you're worried about a safety margin? Spot, set phasers on `severe pain'."
     Welshy sees which way the wind is blowing. "Me poor engines, forgive me. I can get ye going in twenty minutes."
     "We haven't got twenty minutes, Mr. Welsh."
     Welshy is irate now. "But sir, I can't change the laws of physics! I've got to have twenty minutes!"
     "Mr. Welsh, we are currently spiralling downward into a planet that is shrinking into nowhere while somehow managing to increase its gravitational pull. To put it bluntly, we're wreaking havoc with the laws of physics, so don't give me any more of your whining. I thought we were through with that when Mr. Xorq bought it."
     Welshy is sitting on the floor sobbing. "Me poor engines, me poor bairns," he keeps repeating over and over. Irk frowns and turns to Spot.
     "Well, Spot, it's time for you to pull a solution out of a hat now."
     "Captain, there is an intermix formula. It is based on a theoretical relationship between time, space, and mind-altering chemicals."
     At this, Welshy gasps. "But that's only a theory! It's never been done!"
     "It has been attempted by certain test subjects on Lambda Sigma Delta 4, with encouraging results, aside from the occasional flashback."
     Irk puffs up his chest. "Spot, Welshy, you two know more about this ship than the people who designed her. Make it work." He strides boldly out of the room...
... and boldly re-enters the bridge. He sits in his command chair and flips a switch on the panel to his right.
     "Mr. Spot, Mr. Welsh, are we ready?"
     Spot answers. "Captain, we have prepared the intermix process and connected the matter/antimatter propulsion units directly to the transporter circuits. At your command, we will engage the unit. If we are successful, the overall result will to beam the entire ship back to Starbase 10."
     "Stand by." Irk flips another switch. "Attention all hands. This is the Captain. We will be leaving orbit... a bit abruptly I would say. We have the finest crew in space, so please try not to ruin your reputation with blind panic. Try not to think about the fact that if this fails, we will all die horrible, lingering deaths. Captain out." He flips the first switch again. "All right, Mr. Spot. Anytime you're ready."
     Spot turns a key in engineering. The engines crank but won't turn over. Again he tries, and again nothing. The third time is a charm, however, and the engines come to life. There is a whine from as they begin to increase in power. Ensign Kyle in the transporter room pushes his lever forward, but all that happens is a little puff of smoke comes out of one of the pads. He frowns, resets the dials, and tries again. This time, of course, everything works.
     Suddenly, the entire ship starts to shake violently back and forth. The acceleration dampers (the same ones that allowed the ship to decelerate from Warp 6 to a full stop with no discernable effects) are unable to handle this, so crewmembers go tumbling all over the ship.
     "Captain!" Guru yells. "The chronometers! They're running backwards!"
     "Really? Then why is everything else running forwards? For that matter, why are we speaking forwards?"
     "Uh, never mind."
     In a quiet, lyrical voice that reflects an inner serenity and calm acceptance of fate, Uhaula says, "Captain, I'm frightened."
     (If this were Star Trek: the (Intentionally?) Lost Movie
Script, now is where we'd see all the latest graphics that Industrial Light and Magic can offer. There would be things like exploding supernovas, and kaliedoscope effects, and weird head shapes swimming in cloud formations, and maybe even whale images and a Jupiter 2 flyby. Not that these effects would be meant to represent anything physical, you understand, but they would certainly be entertaining. Anyway, while all that's going on, we would have had what would in all likelihood be our last chance to discuss the wild implausibility of viable human/C-programmer interbreeding. Sadly, though, this is Star Trek: the (Intentionally?) Lost Episode, so we don't have time. Of course, if some movie producer would like to do lunch, my e-mail address is in the book.)
     There is then a beautiful shimmering effect in space in the rough vicinity of Starbase 10 (say around 10 parsecs away) as the Exitprize re-materializes. There is wild cheering on the bridge.
     "Captain," Uhaula says, "I'm receiving a message from Starbase 10. An Admiral Paperpusher for you, sir."
     "On audio, Lieutenant. Admiral, we're home!"
     "So I see. What are you doing here, anyway? You're
supposed to be at Alpha Lambda Epsilon, uh, Alpha Iota Lambda, uh, whatever that planet is where you're supposed to be!"
     "Yes, sir, but we've had some wild adventures that we barely escaped with our lives! We've reprogrammed the Vaaldru computer on Ert, discovered that a Delta Omicron Rho Kappan was masquerading as an Alpha Lambda, etc., representative, changed the laws of physics, jump-started the engines, used the transporter to travel through warp space, dealt with a mysterious loss of biochemical energy, bumped-off, b a couple of security guards, told dozens of atrociously bad jokes, and calculated pi to nearly 30 billion decimal places. Surely that's worth something."
     "What do you want, a medal?"
     "No, sir," Irk says, "a Hugo nomination."
     "Hmph. You're more likely to get six months in solitary confinement with no TV. Now get back to where you're supposed to be!"
     "Aye aye, sir. Exitprize out. Mr. Guru, you heard the man. Ahead Warp factor five."
     "Aye aye, Captain," says Guru, and as the Exitprize rides off into the sunset we fade to black.